Tick Tick Tick
by mo.texas55
Summary: A recovering Leonardo is a frustrated Leonardo. (Short one-shot set sometime in the beginning of Season 3)


Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick…

His lips pinch together at the corner under a brow that creases in the middle. He sees Crognard's lips move, probably to scoff some cocky assurance that he is in fact immortal, but all his ears pick up is the muffled laughter of his youngest brother and the tick tick tick tick tick…

His eyes shift to April's hand when it comes into view and places a mug of tea in front of him. Normally, he would mumble a "thanks" at the very least, but he's distracted by the hand-painted stick figure family smiling at him with googly eyes from the porcelain cup and the tick tick tick tick tick…

He sinks to the side again, but hardly bothers to care that he had just fixed his posture five minutes ago. It doesn't help. His jaw fits itself in his palm but the tick tick tick tick continues.

His teeth come together before he sweeps his gaze down to his right where the wooden crutch clicks against the floor with every nudge of his bouncing knee.

His breath escapes through his nose all at once as a serpent of heat slides up the back of his neck. He shifts his weight again.

A giggle just barely scratches the umbrella tone of tick tick tick and his gaze snaps toward the front of the living room where April and Casey laugh from the couch at Mikey's barbarian impersonation.

Leo swallows.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick…

He pushes himself up straight.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick…

He swats a fly away from his face.

Tick tick tick tick…

A bead of sweat crawls down his temple.

Tick tick…

"Nothing can stop—Crognard the Barbarian!"

"I'm going outside." He's on his feet even before the announcement leaves his lips, and he keeps the grimace of pain behind his mask, but the immediate mommy concern that dawns on every single face in the room does not go unmissed—especially not when it sits so heavily atop so sharp a silence.

April even half rises from the couch. "Do you want me to—?"

"Nope. I'm fine. I'm just—gonna check on Donnie."

He does not make eye contact with her or the other two and hobbles out of the living room with as much grace as he can manage.

The crutch digs into the skin of his armpit where it has already begun to rub raw from weeks of limping around. It stings. It snatches all attempts of regulated breathing away from his chest. And—if the pain stabbing the joints of his knee every time his heel comes down isn't enough—an ache now pulls on the muscles in his shoulder where he'd discovered it blossoming five or six days ago. It had started just above his shoulder blade, and now has successfully managed to poison the entire right side of his neck _and_ the line of muscles over his ribs. And for some reason, tottering out of the house as fast as possible is the best thing he can do to get away from it.

He loses a few more beads of sweat with the effort it takes to prop the door open long enough to stumble across the threshold. Cool spring wind kisses his burning cheeks once he's outside, but he's too breathless to notice.

He pauses for a moment to temper his breathing and swallow the knot in his throat, then somehow convinces himself to take the stairs to the porch slowly. Not that it ends up mattering anyway. The heel of his crutch decides not to support his weight on the second step and slips off the edge, throwing him sideways into the rail where he just barely catches his fall but receives a nail to his knee that waters his eyes.

A balloon of heat expands in his chest and his teeth grind together as he tightens his grip on the crutch then hurls it with all his might across the yard. It lands with a bouncing thud about fifty yards away and he glares at its silhouette through the darkness, panting through his nose.

His muscles loosen after a moment, and he rolls his eyes to himself before carefully inching his way down the remaining steps, leaning all of his weight against the rail. Once his feet find the patches of grass below, his right leg begins to tremble, but he refuses to be swayed by it.

He can walk.

He's been walking for years. It's not that hard. It _shouldn't_ be that hard.

But he doesn't move for a moment. He stares at the shadow in the grass and leans his palm against the rail, standing with all his weight on his left foot to keep his right knee bent and allow only the tips of his toes to rest on the dirt.

"You're almost sixteen years old," he says through his teeth. "You can walk, Leo."

His nose twitches and he sets his jaw then confidently pushes himself away from the rail. It takes a moment to steady himself, but when he's standing on his own, a flame of determination spikes his muscles. He presses the barest amount of weight on his right foot and the pain shoots all the way up through his shell. He grimaces, but manages to shuffle forward a few inches. Baring his teeth, he sucks up the pain and staggers slowly across the lawn, dragging dirt along the bottom of his feet through the patches of grass. With every successful yard that he makes it closer to the crutch, his heart lifts a little. The weight of useless mobility begins to dissipate. He'll be able to start training again soon—with his brothers, the way it always had been. He'll be able to get his own tea, to attack the stairs without falling, to stand, to run, to fight. And the owl-eyed stares of concern, the mommying, the nursing, the "Leo let me help you," "Leo let me do that for you," "Leo let me come with you…just to be safe" will all go away. He can feel it. He can taste it. It's as close as the crutch he has only to reach out and take and say, "I beat you, and I don't need you."

He stretches out his arm, takes one last step, and crumples to the ground as his entire body spasms and throws his face in the dirt.

He doesn't move. Doesn't need to.

His arm is still stretched out in front of him and he knows his reach fell too short. His fist curls around a tuft of grass instead and he squeezes the life out of it as his body trembles with an energy he can't release—an energy that's hot, and angry, and exhausted at the same time. It burns the corners of his eyes, but he refuses to let it out. He forces himself to swallow it instead. There will be no wallowing, no worrying, no sobbing for himself—his siblings, his friends, they do enough of that for him already, why suffocate himself with it too?

He listens to the hum of crickets in the distance and finally appreciates the breeze that sweeps past his neck. He breathes in the scent of dirt and hay, and turns his face to the side to press his cheek against the earth. It cools his skin, and he allows his muscles to sink into it.

Maybe he'll just lay here until the ground opens up, until he Lord rains down fire from the sky, or whatever it is that Revelations says is suppose to happen. It's not like he'll be of use to anyone anyway—when the world decides to end. Maybe once upon a time he could imagine himself stopping it…and once upon a time, he could stop it, and did stop it. But not this time. Maybe once was all he was good for. Two times was too many, and so he was destined to fail, and did, and now he's in the grass, in the dirt, in nowhere. And if the world tries to end again, he won't be able to help it this time. It's just going to have to die.


End file.
